Running Water
by your-warden
Summary: One man shapes him. The same man shapes us... Challenges us and our worldly perceptions. How will Soap handle being pleasured by this god?


_Character PoVs: Soap, Gatekeeper, Handtowel, Mouthwash_

Merriment and meaning held no distinction in Soap's eyes, for his existence passed among the weaves of his elation. There was a certain reverence in his duty; he was a priest of sanitation, the gatekeeper that baptized his prophet before their passing. Time and time again he'd watch his kin mutilated and torn apart... The weak, unbelieving forms that he saw cast into the cage below. He, he was different. Yes, yes, it hurt him... it was killing him. But there was no greater euphoria for him. To be useful to a god... The others knew not of the blessing. Soap watched patiently as his god sat on the pot to take a huge shit. He was once again elated. This was the first time today... Those hands, he knew he would be swept away in their fingers, hurt, and pleasured... He could wait. He could wait all day...

-

Seth Rogan was pleased with his most recent project. It had aired in theaters for the first time not long ago, and its overwhelmingly positive response was rivaled only by the cries out outrage from a handful of basement-dwelling manchildren - Social Justice Warriors, they called themselves. Albeit few in numbers, the modest gathering spoke in a collective voice clamorous enough that it could not be ignored... or so they thought. Seth chuckled to himself, adjusting his position upon the porcelain throne. They were playing right into his scheming hands. Pleased with the blossoming of his sadistic plot, he smugly wiped and flushed, entirely unaware as to what had just transpired. The sullied toilet paper was whisked away by a synthetic current into the toilet's hungry orifice. He'd no way of knowing that the fictional world he had created was all too real, and in alignment with his ignorance, another roll of life had just been stolen from a guiltless roll of sentient tissue. Its screams of pain fell on deaf ears. Seth made his way to the sink, where he regarded his reflection with a smile and a wink. He soaked his hands and reached unknowingly for the still bar of soap, fingers gripping its worn exterior. The moisture from his hands softened its shell, and as he drew it into his palms, gliding it gently between them, froth formed in its wake. Smirking pleasantly to himself, he shivered at the smooth sensation and placed either of his thumbs on the soap's front, moving them in languid circular formations. "That's the good shit," he warbled, working the suds between his calloused and sin-stained fingertips. "Yeayeaeayeaya boy, I do like that!" Seth Rogan threw his head back and laughed.

-

She detested every god who had ever entered this room. There had been many, but they were all the same in her eyes. They'd enter discreetly, lock the door behind them, and produce their foul smelling waste, giving the occasional grunt and moan. A terrible stench would fill the room. They'd rid themselves of whatever remnants were still upon their hands, careless to the lives they wore down to nothing in the process. Then they'd come to her - wrap her around their still wet, dripping hands until she dried them. She'd choke upon the sudsy liquid, beg for them to stop, but they didn't care. None of them ever did. It was simply how they operate. They took and took and _took_ until there wasn't anything left to take anymore. Then they'd get rid of you. Drying their filthy hands wasn't the worst part of her existence, no - it had to be when they _washed_ her, when she was thrown into that always swirling, sweltering, infernal _Hell_ to be cleaned. She could hear the garbled, desperate cries of her kin as they were thrown into the darkness, but they'd eventually die out. Not even screams could overcome the terrible noise the machine made when it started. She herself had given up on begging. They didn't care, didn't hear her or _any_ of them. She'd accepted it by now. She was worn and ragged. It wouldn't be long now until they got rid of her. Good. She wanted them to. _He_ was the most frequent visitor. Of course, he was the Warden - that's what they called him - the one who patrolled this place, owned it. She didn't look up when he came in, averted her eyes when he took a seat and began to purge his body of whatever poor souls he'd devoured that day. She knew what was coming. Willing her eyes to close when he began to torment the naive, masochistic soap bar, she shuddered at the guttural noises of pleasure he emitted and prayed - to who, she didn't know - that he would leave her be. Just for a day. _Just one day._

 _-_

Ah, another visit from the Warden, it would seem. What magic would befall him? None. None did. He couldn't deny that he remembered the day he had been purchased fondly. How he had been taken gently off of his shelf, away from his family and friends to fulfill his purpose. And yet he couldn't help but scoff at his foolish enthusiasm. Seeing as soon after, he was to be stowed away in the cabinet hanging above the sink, unused, and catching mere glimpses of the world beyond as the Warden opened and closed the doors. How long has he been in his possession? He had no idea. He'd lost track of time, days going by and not once had Mr. Rogan even considered him. The shaving cream always got attention, a bright, youthful look on his face as he went out into the ranks. And yet the seal on his own cap remained untouched, and he knew he'd already gone long past his date of expiration. Regrettably, Mouthwash couldn't rot. It only sat there, useless, ineffective, and bitter. And so he did, peering through the light of the Warden's crusted medicine cabinet, glaring daggers at those expendable products that he'd seen come and go by the day. Lucky motherfuckers.

-

It was he, the god. Their god. The others might not accept the true, cruel nature of their god, but he always did. He was always a firm believer, don't get it wrong... He sang their anthems with more vigor than all of them, prayed and worshiped with more faith than any other product alive. So why did they run from the truth? There had not been meaning to their life beforehand. Each day, a sloth shelf, each figure packed in compactly, it was a barn for lazy fucking livestock, is what it was. Growing more content in their own mediocrity. What were they, beyond that? How come it was HE that knew the answer? A pitied chuckle came from him as he thought on the truth of kin... He could see the handcloth there now. Its eyes showed her state of being. Repeated washes had dried and cracked her mind, allowing malice to seep through to her core. She was nothing. She could not accept her being, and thus she was nothing... She didn't accept the feeling of those hands caressing her... a thumbnail pinning you down so effortlessly despite light struggle, inadvertently making the sparks of a chemical reaction fly as the captor so expertly rubbed that g-spot...! Of course. It was all part of the religion of their being. The god was above him, now... His only love was himself, and why should it be anything else? He was merely something to be USED by him... The hard, sudden creak of the sink handle cued the torrent to let loose from the faucet... a sound that excited him _immensely._ He couldn't help but smirk! Oh yes, daddy... He shuddered and gasped as those fingers so firmly gripped him, there was no escape...! So Strong! A tight, drawn out moan caused him to rock as he could feel his exterior softening to the god's touch. It was a natural thing it did. OH... OH FUCK THIS WAS TOO MUCH. "OO-OHH FUCK!" He couldn't understand the beast's ancient poetic speech, but FUCK, he just lived for the MOMENT. OOO-OHHHH!


End file.
